


Everything's Coming Up Roses

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Agatha deserves better and I’m here to give it to her, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Baz is pining, Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Gay Panic! In The Catacombs, Hanahaki Disease, Humor, M/M, Magic Mishaps, Miscommunication, Simon is clueless, Watford Seventh Year, spell gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: During a fight over Agatha, Simon accidentally curses Baz with a dangerous love disease.Baz now has three options: find a way to get the object of his affections to return his romantic feelings, undergo a surgery that will take his magic away, or die.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 194
Kudos: 569





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> I found this fic in my WIP Graveyard with like 2K words, and then completely rewrote it and added another 8K words in less than two weeks, because escapism is clearly how I deal with heavy stress. 
> 
> Thank you to all the lovely people who looked over parts of this fic for me and gave me advice (particularly in the next chapter). And thank you for the beta help: @scone-lover, @giishu, @waterwings, @xivz, & @thedaggerrose!
> 
> Warning: this fic has some blood and vomiting. It's not horribly graphic, but enter at your own risk if you're squeamish. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon curses Baz.

**Simon**

I slam the door so hard the windows rattle, but Baz isn’t even fazed.

He’s sitting at his desk with his Latin textbook open, diligently taking notes in his precise cursive. He licks his finger to turn a page, as if he didn’t hear me storm into the bedroom like a hurricane.

“Baz,” I growl.

He ignores me. He’s got his eyes locked downwards, and I'd grab his chin and make him look up at me if I weren't worried about triggering the Anathema. (I'm afraid I'm nearly out of warnings. I broke it a lot when we were younger.) 

But I need to break _something._ So I rip his pen out of his hands and snap it in two. 

Baz finally looks at me, turning his head just enough to let me see his sneer. _"Fōrmōsus idiota."_

I don't know what language he just spoke, but he spit the words out like a curse. “What is that supposed to mean?”

"You'd know what I just said if you ever actually studied for Latin. Which is what I am trying very hard to do here, so I don't score like a numpty on my exams like you always do."

I feel my magic itching under my fingertips. I jump straight to the point, before I'll be forced to choose between leaving the bedroom and blowing it apart. 

"What did you say to Agatha?" I demand.   
  


"In the past seven years? Quite a bit, Snow. Maybe even more than you have, given your inability to string a sentence together," he drawls.

Baz is wearing his signature bored expression, like he's completely unaffected by the bonfire haze of my magic steadily heating the bedroom. On a good day, it usually attracts mages to me. It's a powerful thing—even a mage as strong as Penny gets a little light-headed when I'm this charged. But it’s never worked to make Baz even the slightest bit attracted to me. 

He always acts like I'm beneath him: ever since our very first day, when he wouldn't shake my hand until he couldn't stand the compulsive magic of the Crucible any longer. As if I was _diseased_ and he didn't want to catch it. I thought I'd stop being offended by his attitude by now, but Baz somehow always knows how to wind me up. 

“You obviously said something to her. Why else would she break up with me?" 

His eyes light up with sadistic delight, and I regret my words immediately.

"Oh, I can think of a few reasons, Snow," he says, finally spinning in his chair to face me. He starts listing off things on his fingers. "You're obstinate. You've got more misplaced nobility than common sense. You're quite literally a nuclear bomb. You snore like a dragon." 

"Fuck off!" I shout, trying not to take his insults to heart. "This—whatever you said to Agatha— well, you're obviously just trying to fuck with me! What are you plotting?" 

“Oh, I don’t know. Your untimely demise, ways to torture you, a plan to burn Watford to the ground." He pauses thoughtfully, his hand on his chin. “Also, my little sister’s birthday party next month.”

“I—ugh!" I tug at my curls, annoyance rioting in my gut. He never takes anything seriously—he never answers any of my questions with anything but snark and cruelty. "It's like you can't even hear me when I'm talking!”

Baz stands so we're facing each other, giving me a vicious look from down his nose. “I think _everyone_ can hear you, Snow." 

“Why—why do you make it your _personal mission_ to ruin my life? Can't you, like, get a hobby?” I respond, trying (and failing) to imitate his sarcastic humor. 

Baz’s eyes darken. “ _I’m_ ruining _your_ life?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes! You’re always trying to steal my girlfriend!”

Baz lets out a cruel laugh. “I think your girlfriend is trying to steal _me.”_

“I—she—you—” I stammer, words coming out before my brain can come up with a plan. 

“Exactly," he says, taking my inability to come up with a response as an admission that he's right. "Don’t come complaining to me about your fucking storybook life. I don’t want to hear about your golden girlfriend or golden destiny or golden _self.”_

I can’t tell what he means by ‘golden’, but I’m sure he considers it an insult somehow. Baz doesn't know how to be anything but vicious. 

He makes me feel so stupid and inconsequential. Just once, I wish he would _see_ me.

“Oh, yeah, Baz, I’m so bloody golden,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. My blood boils, all my emotions heating my skin in response to his cold indifference. If anyone is going to end up with the destiny he wants, it’s _him._ He’d never understand what it’s like not to be wanted. “I'm just fucking lovely. **Everything’s Coming Up Roses**.”

I really don't mean to speak with magic. But it comes out anyways, from somewhere deep in my chest. 

For a moment, nothing happens, and I reckon I'm safe—that it's not a real spell. 

But then, Baz's face goes pale and he clutches at his throat. 

"Baz?" I say in a small voice.

I think for a moment that he might just be having me on, since his expression is such a caricature. That is, until he starts throwing up.

I have the urge to jump back—the smell of vomit always makes me want to hurl—but then I realize it’s not sick he’s throwing up, but flower petals.

I’m about to laugh at the grossly literal turn my spell just took. Except it's nowhere near funny that the petals seem to be blocking his ability to breathe.

“Baz!” I yell, and kneel beside him as he hurls. Another round of petals come hurling out of him, and it smells like a sickening mixture of the flowers with my green, sticky magic. 

Shame twists my gut into knots. I touch the small of his back in an awkward effort to help. Just as I do, the vomiting stops. 

Through his dry heaves, he chokes out, “What did you do to me?”

I yank my hand away—shock and alarm rising in me when I recognize his tone, foreign in his usually honeyed voice. 

He sounds _scared_. 

He continues to throw up rose petals, shaking hard on the ground. I’m frozen, unsure what to do, unsure what I’ve _done._

I've just crossed a line I can't uncross. There's no precedent for this—I've never actually _cursed_ him before. Not even outside our bedroom. I've attacked him with my fists and my words, yes—but not my unpredictable magic.

I'm scrambling to come up with some kind of plan, when I hear a sharp voice shriek from the bedroom door. "Nicks and Slick!"

"Oh, Penny. Thank _Merlin."_ I'd forgotten that I was supposed to meet Penny at the library right now—I came straight from my break-up with Agatha to confront Baz. Pen must have decided to come looking for me. "I cast a spell, but I'm not sure what it was." 

"Fucking imbecile." Baz forces out the words along with a fistful of rose petals. The constant fire usually present in his eyes is dimmed by unmistakable pain. 

"What was it?" Penny asks.

"Everything's coming up roses," Baz says in a rush before I can answer. He glares daggers at me. "You want to risk cursing her with your fucked-up magic, too?"

I want to protest, but considering I'm the reason he's throwing up _literal_ flowers, I decide biting my tongue might be the best course of action here. 

"Everything's coming up roses… everything's coming up roses…" Penny muses. (Seems like everyone's capable of speaking spells without magic but me.) After a moment, her eyes suddenly widen. "Yes… yes! I read about that spell during my 8th year spell research. Just—wait here." 

Baz gives her a sarcastic thumbs-up, and she's running out of our bedroom, taking the stairs two steps at a time.

I'm not a patient bloke in the best of circumstances, and this is nowhere near the best of circumstances. Baz is turned away from me; he seems to have thrown most of the petals up, but his body is shaking like it hasn't gotten the memo. 

I try to force words out—an apology, maybe—but my heart seems to be lodged in my throat the way the rose petals are in his.

I don't know how much time has passed when Penny comes running back with a thick red book.

_"Dangerous Love Spells?"_ I ask, reading the title. Baz's eyes snap up to Penny.

"Oh, _no._ He didn't," he groans, sounding miserable.

"Didn't what?"

"Shh." Penny cuts me off, flipping through the book at an impressive speed. About halfway through, she stops her searching with a quiet, "Aha!"

Her eyes scan the page quickly, widening as she reads. The suspense is tying knots in my gut. “Well?” I ask urgently.

“Oh, Simon,” she says.

Panic clogs my throat—because I know what that tone means. It’s the voice she used when I blew up one of the stone towers on our school field trip to Stonehenge. It's the voice she used when I stabbed the goblin king before she could warn me that it would bring every other goblin in the United Kingdom after me. It's the voice she used when I made the mistake of telling Agatha that I didn't much like horses.

It’s the voice she uses when I’ve cocked something up so spectacularly, even she can’t fix it.

My voice wavers as I ask, “Penny, what did I do?” 

She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she just hands the textbook to an impatient-looking Baz.

I watch his eyes scan the page, his face growing paler as he reads it. I don't know what the textbook says, but based on Penny's reaction, I expect him to yell at me or curse me or punch me.

Instead, he bursts out laughing.

**Baz**

I always knew loving Simon Snow was going to kill me. 

I just didn't anticipate how ironically literal my downfall would be. 

**_Everything's Coming Up Roses:_ **

_This advanced amor spell is extremely dangerous and illegal in nearly every country. It curses the inflicted mage with a love disease, the symptoms of which consist primarily of_ _throwing up rose petals. This spell will only work on a victim who is suffering from what they perceive to be one-sided romantic love. The stronger the feelings of unrequited love, the more intense their symptoms and the more quickly the disease will develop. Within a week of being afflicted, if the condition is not treated or if the love is not requited, the victim will die. The only known treatment is surgery. However, the side effect of the surgery is permanent damage to the affected Mage's vocal chords, terminating their ability to speak ever again and therefore their ability to perform magic._

"You win," I laugh through my bitterness, despite the roughness of my sore throat. 

"Huh? I—what?" Simon stammers, his face colouring a deep shade of crimson. "What do you mean?"

I don't really want him to know, but it's not as if I have a choice in the matter; he rips the book straight out of my hands, like the wild animal he is. His eyebrows scrunch together as he reads, and I consider warning him about frown lines. (My step-mum always reminds me, but he'll be the only one of us who'll live to see the consequences.) 

"This can't be right," Snow whispers.

"The fact that you managed to land an advanced spell? I can hardly believe it either." 

"The spell should only work if you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back," he says slowly, like he's struggling to comprehend the concept. 

"Well spotted," I snap back. He gives me a look bursting with suspicion and apprehension. It infuriates me. "I'm _capable_ of love, Snow. I'm not a monster." 

(Well—that's not strictly true. I _am_ a monster, but I've managed not to confess that to Snow for seven years. I can manage another week.) (That is, if the spell even gives me a week. My love for Snow is so all-consuming, it's already tearing me apart at the seams. I wouldn't be surprised if I didn't have half that time.) 

"But... it has to be unrequited."

"You are literally just stating to me what I read not one minute ago," I snap. He's unaffected by my hostility—he's still looking like a deer in headlights with his wide-eyed expression. 

"Who is it?" 

There's a part of me that wants to just be truthful, just to see the shock on his face. (That part's very, very small—the rest of me would much rather keep my dignity intact.) 

"David Bowie," I deadpan. "You down for a seance, Snow? My aunt swears up and down she's a good medium."

" _Baz,"_ he says angrily. "This isn't a joke."

"Crowley, Snow. You would think _you're_ the one who's going to die this week." 

Snow's golden skin becomes ashen. "You're not going to _die,_ Baz," he says, sounding horrified by the prospect. It's quite ridiculous, considering his plan has always been to murder me on a battlefield. How is this any worse? 

"Did we read the same book?" I turn to Bunce, who's looking all shades of uncomfortable with the present situation. "Can he read?"

I don't realise Simon's been shaking until he starts to go blurry at the edges. His smoky magic has gone from a haze to a cloud, making the air even harder to breathe. My coughs become impossible to stifle, and I start hacking loudly. 

"Simon! You have to stop—it's going to make Baz worse!" Bunce yells.

He screws up his face, the effort of containing his supernova clearing hurting him. His misery twists in my chest, poisoning my efforts of feigned indifference. He takes gulping, shaky breaths, but his fingers are still fuzzy and unstable. 

I'm not quite sure what makes me do it. Maybe I can't bear to see him in pain. Maybe it's that I know, in a couple days' time, what I do now won't matter. Maybe it’s that it made the agony in my throat subside a little when he touched my shoulder earlier, and I want to see if it works again. Maybe it's just that I want to. 

"Snow," I say, grabbing his forearm, in a desperate attempt to steady his hurricane. The contact sends sparks through my arms, the chemistry between us working like a salve to my throat. I take a deep breath of oxygen, taking advantage of the clearing of my airway. 

His blue eyes meet mine. Slowly, the smoke clears. 

I'm almost proud of myself for managing to stop Snow from going off rather than goading him into it, when he jerks out of my grip. 

The silence that follows is awkward. I'm forced to sit in the weight of Snow's rejection—something that would squeeze my heart on a normal day, but the spell makes it feel as if Snow ripped my still beating heart from my chest and stomped on it. 

Just as quickly as they disappeared, the roses make their comeback, spilling out of my lips like a forced confession. 

Bunce reacts quickly. She points her magic ring at me, and yells in a theatrical tone, **"Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!"**

The yearning in my chest loosens into an emotion I'm more comfortable with. 

"What was that?" Snow asks Penny. 

"Have you really not heard of _Romeo and Juliet,_ Snow?" I snarl, my words snapping like a poisonous snake. "I suppose it wouldn't matter if you had. It's years above your reading level, you bumbling halfwit." 

Both of them are taken aback by the fire in my voice, but Bunce recovers first. 

"It's a spell that's supposed to balance the intensity of love with hate," she says, not taking her eyes off of me. 

Snows eyebrows furrow. "So...now…Baz hates whoever he loves?" 

"Oh, no. Not really. No magic can destroy love completely."

"Unfortunately," I growl. 

I still feel it—his anchor in my heart, the constant weight of my hopeless affection—even under the power of Bunce's spell. My love for Simon has fused itself into my bones; I'm one with my devotion. No amount of hate will be able to totally quell my passion over this absolute moron. 

"This spell will just keep him from devolving completely into obsession over his feelings." (Too late for that one, Bunce.) "The curse is supposed to worsen the more you think about the object of your feelings, so the _Romeo and Juliet_ spell should keep him angry enough to give him some extra time." 

"Okay, so we still need to lift the curse," Snow says, turning to me with his blue eyes blazing. "All you have to do is go tell the girl you fancy that you lo—" 

I cut him off before he can finish that ridiculous sentence. "No."

Simon pauses. "No...?"

"No, I'm not doing that." 

"Okay…" he says. He waits for me to respond, and when I don't, he continues. "Then what are you going to do...?" 

_What am I going to do?_ I wonder, and my stomach sinks. _What is there to do?_

"Die," I say simply.

"Wh- _what?_ " he splutters.

"Shouldn't you be happy, Snow?" I spit out. The spell's rage comes out, the words bitter on my sharp tongue. "You've gotten what you wanted: slayed the beast, defeated the bad guy. You even managed to do it with a spell—and not your bloody sword—like a proper mage. I'd send flowers and formal congratulations for your accomplishment, but honestly, I don't think I have the time."

I leave the bedroom, slamming the door shut with a crashing finality. The bonfire smoke of Simon Snow stings my eyes, and for the moment, I can pretend it’s to blame for my welling tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - see you this Sunday with the next chapter!


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon tries to fix his mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi- thank you to everyone who read chapter 1 and left such sweet comments. & special thanks to my betas and discord friends who were kind enough to sensitivity read this chapter for me! 
> 
> Hope you like this chapter - I wrote it mainly while listening to Ariana Grande’s new album. I am taking no questions or comments on that artistic choice

**Simon**

I wait up for Baz as long as I possibly can: until my eyelids are too heavy to force open and I fall asleep on my chair in an uncomfortable knot of limbs. I wake with a kink in my neck and nasty morning breath and regret stirring deep in my gut, but he's still not back in our bedroom. 

It's Saturday—usually my favourite day of the week, because Cook Pritchard makes a whole breakfast spread, complete with waffles and sausages and crumpets—but for once, I'm not hungry. It probably has something to do with the plan I came up with last night. 

It's so obvious. What needs to be done—what will break Baz's curse. I just didn't want to admit it. I didn't want to think about it. 

I'm doing just that ( _ not _ thinking about it, that is) as I make my way down to the dining hall. 

As I walk in, my eyes do an involuntary sweep of the room, looking for dark hair and grey eyes. But he's (predictably) not here, so I walk towards the person I came for. 

"Agatha," I greet her. She's not at our usual table—instead, she's sitting alone as she sips her black coffee. "Er…Can we, uh. Talk?" 

She sighs. "I think we said everything we needed to say yesterday, Simon." 

"I—oh, no. Not about that." I blush from my chest to my ears. Merlin, this is going to be an awkward conversation. "Let's just… go outside?" 

Agatha lets out another exasperated exhale, and I try not to be offended.

We walk out to the empty courtyard together, stopping under a sprawling birch tree. Me, shuffling my feet awkwardly. Agatha, crossing her arms and tapping her foot. 

"So?" she prompts, as I'm struggling to find my words. 

"I need…" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat noisily. "Well, a favour." 

Her eyebrows raise. "A favour?" 

"Well—uh—not quite. I mean. Not a  _ favour _ favour. I think you'd actually want to do this, I mean…I think you were planning on saying something to him already. I just. I think you should do it  _ now, _ yeah? It would really help, and, er—" 

"Simon, I really want to get back before my coffee gets cold, so if you could get to the point—"

"I need you to tell Baz that you're in love with him!" I blurt out, loudly enough to startle a couple of robins out of the tree above us. 

An awkward silence settles between us as Agatha tries to process my request. It's probably the very last thing she expected me to say. 

"Pardon me?" she chokes out, her voice high and thin. 

"Listen, alright. I made a big mistake—I cursed Baz with…well, I don't want to say the spell out loud again, but now he either needs to have the person he's in love with love him back or he's going to  _ die  _ and—fuck, Agatha. I need to make this right." 

"Oh...kay," she says slowly. "So, what you're trying to tell me, is that Basil told you he loves me?" 

"Well—not in so many words." 

She narrows her eyes. "What  _ exactly _ did he say?" 

"Nothing. But!" I tug at my curls in frustration. "You're the only girl he pays any attention to in our year. If it's not you…I mean, Agatha, who else would it be?" 

"You want me to go  _ confess my love to Basilton Pitch?  _ Why, exactly—because you have a hunch about it? Simon, you know your instincts tend to be just a  _ little  _ off when it comes to Basil, right?" 

"That's not true! I know Baz better than anyone!" 

"Oh, really?" Agatha says sarcastically. "So you were right about him making a deal with the devil in exchange for his soul, just so that he could always be three inches taller than you?" 

"I could’ve been! It's weird how our growth spurts always happened at the  _ exact  _ same time!" I groan in frustration, and remind myself to stay on topic. "Agatha…I know I could be wrong. But if I'm right…"

If I'm right, Agatha and Baz will be together. If I'm right, Baz will get what I thought I was supposed to have: the girl and the happily ever after. He'll have beaten me once and for all. 

But I don't care about that. Not like I care about Baz. 

"If I'm right, you can save his life. Look, I know you've always found him...attractive, even when we were together." For the first time during this conversation, something like sheepishness crosses across Aggie's face. "It's okay…if you can cure him, it's okay. You just need to make him believe you love him, and everything will be okay.  _ Please, _ I'm begging you. Just try, and I'll never ask you for anything ever again." 

Agatha's face grows solemn. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?" 

"Yes, I am." 

She looks down, kicking the ground with the toe of her shoe thoughtfully. I'm desperate for her answer, but I bite my (recklessly impulsive) tongue and let her think. 

When she looks back up at me, her eyes are resigned. "Alright. I'll do it." 

* * *

**Agatha**

I find Baz alone in the music room. He's playing his violin with his entire body, his eyes closed as his instrument croons a morose ballad. 

He's even more beautiful in his tragedy, really. I should be quite excited about the prospect of this encounter ending with a confession from the untouchable Basilton Pitch. He'd probably kiss me, impassioned by his requited feelings. 

I remember what kissing Simon always felt like—clumsy and unpleasant, leaving my chest in anxious knots—and pray that I'll feel differently with Basil. That touching him will leave me wanting and dreamy, like the girls in the movies. 

"Hello, Basil," I greet him, not half as confidently as I'd prefer. His music abruptly halts. 

"Wellbelove," he responds. His voice isn't as haughty as usual—he sounds a bit hoarse, as if he's been yelling, or maybe crying. (Imagine  _ that.  _ Basilton Pitch crying.) He sets his violin down gently into its case, closing the lid with a soft snapping sound. "What can I do for you?" 

"Um…" I practised this conversation with myself as I walked around campus looking for him. But my words seem to have fallen out of my head and I'm left scrambling for something clever to say. "So. We have a Magic Words exam on Wednesday." 

_ Really, that's the best I can do? _ I chastise myself.  _ Crowley, I'm miserable at flirting.  _

Simon never required any flirting. It was painfully obvious that he fancied me since we were first years, when he came to my house for Christmas and he spent the evening switching between stealing nervous glances at me and wolfing down chunks of roast beef. When he asked me to be his girlfriend in fifth year, it seemed like the natural next step in his story. The Chosen One gets the girl he's been pining over for years— _ hurray, happily ever after! _

Ending our relationship took all of my resolve. I'd been thinking about it for months, filled with a mixture of guilt over my indifference towards him and annoyance that he didn't seem to notice how little I was interested in our romance. When I finally said those simple (yet groundbreaking) words— _ 'Simon, I want to break up' _ —it felt like doing something for myself instead of for Simon for once. Like setting myself free. 

Yet, here I am, giving up a part of myself for Simon bloody Snow. Again. 

"We do," Baz says politely. 

Nicks and Slick. Maybe I should just rip off the bandage already.

"So I've come to tell you that…" 

I take a deep breath.  _ You can do this,  _ I tell myself.  _ They're just words.  _

_ 'Just words,' as if that's not all that magic is. _

"See, the thing is…" I take a deep breath, and push through. Saying the words like I do with magic—reluctantly, because everyone says it's supposed to be my role. I'm the girl—the prize. Someone else's endgame. "I… love you." 

The words feel foreign coming out of my mouth. I've said them before—to my family, to my best friend Minty. But never like this—never romantically. The rare times Simon would say those three little words, I'd just smile at him, never able to force the lie past my lips. 

It's wrong—I know in my churning gut it's not true. I was hoping that maybe I'd say them, and then I'd feel it. But I don't. Not for Simon, not for Basil, not for  _ anyone.  _

Crowley. What does that mean? 

I don't have the time to figure it out right this second, because Basil is busy staring at me like I've whacked him over the head with a frying pan. 

"I'm—I'm sorry?" he finally manages to choke out, panic ringing clearly in his voice. 

Oh, thank  _ gods. _ Simon was wrong. 

"Oh, Crowley." I laugh, slightly hysterical. "No, no,  _ I'm _ sorry. I don't love you, I really don't. Simon put me up to this." 

Basilton's eyes widen and his hand flies up to his lips. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. 

"Alright, I know that's kind of shocking, but there's no need to be overdramatic about—"

I'm cut off by Baz throwing up. I jump back, disgusted and desperate to make sure he doesn't get his vomit on my new boots. But when I look down, I realise that he's just thrown up… flowers? 

"Um," I say. "What the hell happened to you?" 

"What do you think?" he replies, inhaling oxygen heavily between his words. "Simon Snow happened to me." 

Another round of flower petals spew out of his mouth, and I politely look away. 

"Well." I need this encounter to be over. "I'll… leave you to it." 

I _ try _ not to sprint out of the music room, but I'll admit I walk rather quickly out the door. 

I drift around the grounds aimlessly, a cluster of tangled up emotions ricocheting in my chest. All my embarrassment and confusion mix uncomfortably in my gut, until my heart settles those feelings with a strike of intuition. 

Clarity comes in bits and pieces—in little insignificant memories, that suddenly seem momentous in total. How lost I feel listening to Minty gush over attractive celebrities. The way love songs always seem so comically melodramatic to me. That feeling that I'm missing out on the punchline watching romantic comedies. 

How dating Simon always felt like chipping away at myself: every touch a sacrifice. The relief I felt when I finally gathered up my nerve and ended it, not sure if I could stomach even one more kiss. 

I thought maybe Basil could be it. Maybe he'd be the solution to the puzzle of my heart. But hearing my false confession ripped from my throat—I realised no other person could ever make me mean those words.

I don't want love—not the way other people seem to. Not romantically. 

I stop walking. 

I close my eyes and picture my life. Not the one I've been told I'm predestined for: the one with magic and marriage and pretending. The life  _ I  _ really want. I see blue waves and sandy beaches. I see music festivals and bar hopping. I see a studio apartment with a nice kitchen to bake in, and a patio for a herb garden and a little dog to run around in. 

I see me—just me. All on my own. 

And that's okay. 

I take a deep breath of air, feeling the weight on my shoulders lift, feeling the sun on my skin warm my face and my heart. 

I look up at the vast sky—the whole world before me—and I smile. 

* * *

**Simon**

I'm laying face-down in my bed—a position I refuse to get out of until I'm physically removed. 

Baz once told me that he reckoned I could major in the art of not thinking. Usually, I'd be inclined to agree with him. It's a matter of survival, really—being the Chosen One isn't exactly an easy thing to wrap your head around. I'm sure I'd never get out of bed if I took the time to properly think this shite through. 

That's actually not a bad plan. I'll just stay in this bed forever, so I never,  _ ever _ have to see Baz and Agatha happy together.

I burrow my head deeper into my pillow and scream against the fabric in my mouth, trying to get rid of the frustration clouding my head. I'm haunted by images of Baz and Agatha holding hands—or, Merlin forbid— _ kissing. _ Imagining Baz saying those three words to her, my spell being proof that he really, truly means it, knocks the wind out of me. I try to fight the aching thoughts, but the jealousy clings to me like poison ivy. My skin's hot and itchy with it, my misery a physical thing. 

I imagine Penny chiding me for moping about. ' _ You did this to yourself, Simon,'  _ she'd say. As if I had much of a choice. 

I try to make a list of the bright sides.

(1) Baz will live.

And...

And. 

Well, I suppose that's the only bright side. 

I hear footsteps on the staircase and I groan into my pillow. The door clicks open, and Baz brings a rush of cold air and his cedar and bergamot shampoo in with him.

I try to brace myself for Baz's taunts about finally getting the girl. For his boasts and his cruel laughter and his smug fucking smirk. 

But he says nothing. 

I don't move. I can sense him standing in the middle of the room, between our beds—but he doesn't move either. We stay locked in this silent stalemate for a minute. Two. Three minutes. 

I crack first. (I always do.) 

_ "What?"  _ I snarl, lifting my face off my (unfortunately visibly tear-stained) pillow to glare at him. "Come to gloat?" 

Baz's expression is impassive—save for the crease between his brows. When he speaks, his voice is strange. Hollow, almost. "Why?" 

"Why what?" I spit, scrambling to get to my feet. I don't want to give Baz any more of a height advantage than he already has—this conversation is already going to be miserable without Baz taking the opportunity to _ literally _ spit insults down at me. 

He pronounces his words deliberately, like I'm a particularly slow child. "Why would you ask Agatha to tell me that she  _ loves me?"  _

I tug at my hair in frustration. Is Baz really going to make me spell it out? Crowley, he's a nasty prick. 

"Why do you think! It's not because I fancy the idea of watching the two of you ride off into the sunset on a unicorn together! I was trying to  _ save you,  _ you ungrateful, miserable basta—"

My insult is cut off by Baz showering me with roses. 

"Merlin—Baz!" I shout.

Baz's body heaves violently, his entire body shaking with the wretched effort of it. I look at the flowers he's laid out at my feet, and I realise why it's such a ghastly sight. The petals he's throwing up—well, they're not just petals anymore. It's the whole flower—which means it has  _ thorns  _ now. Entire roses tearing up his throat and spilling blood past his lips.

"No, no, no, no, no." I'm panicking this shouldn't be happening! He should be cured! "No,  **stop!"**

The magic bursts out of me all at once—the entirety of it rushing through me and past my lips in only an instant's time. It hits Baz like a lightning bolt, shooting through him and making him go ramrod straight. He lets out a cough—but, mercifully, no more roses pour past his lips. 

The effort of my magic has my chest heaving along with Baz's. The only sound in the room is us catching our breaths, before Baz manages to choke out, "Stop using your unstable magic on me without my permission, you reckless cretin." 

Like I said.  Ungrateful, miserable bastard. 

But that's not the most important thing right now. The most important thing is… 

"It's not Agatha who you love." 

"Of course it's not  _ Wellbelove,"  _ he snaps. "How banal would that be—the villain, fawning all over the hero's girl? Talk about a bad cliche." 

"But—but!" I splutter, feeling like the ground's been snatched from under me. "You're always flirting with her!" 

"I only did that to piss you off, Snow." He grins with his teeth, and I see that they're stained crimson with blood. (It makes him look like a proper vampire.) (Which, well. He  _ is. _ But he  _ really _ looks like one, right now.) "Plus, you could barely call what I was doing flirting. You made it so easy—all I'd had to do was send her a couple of lingering stares in Elocution and you'd blow your lid." 

"That's—" I don't even know what to say to that. "Well, that's not nice!" 

Baz rolls his eyes. "Haven't you noticed? I'm not very nice." 

"I'm serious, Baz. It's not on to make someone fancy you like that." 

"Oh, trust me, Snow. Wellbelove found that experience as miserable as I did." 

He shudders a bit at the memory, and I'm not sure if I'm irritated at Baz's callousness or relieved neither of them are interested in the other. Maybe both. 

"Okay, fine," I huff. "I'll admit I was wrong about Agatha, then. But there's obviously  _ someone  _ who you're in love with."

"Yes, I think your spell has made that unfortunate fact abundantly clear," Baz mutters, bitterness and blood on his tongue. 

"Don't you reckon it's about time you go confess? If the roses are anything to go off, you don't have much time." I motion around to the bloody flowers on the ground, strewn about like a romantic evening took a deadly turn. 

Merlin, he must fancy someone something rotten for the curse to get this bad, this quickly. The knowledge settles like an uncomfortable weight in my gut—that he's got a whole other part of himself, a part that yearns and aches and hurts for somebody out there. There's this secret Baz—Baz in  _ love _ —that I've never been privy to before now. I thought I knew him better than anyone, but this is something that I never got to see, even after all my hours and days and weeks spent following him around to the Wavering Woods, to the Catacombs, to his bloody violin lessons. 

_He would never have let me see the truth of him, if it were up to him,_ I think, and the thought hurts more than it has any right to. 

"Why does this matter to you so much?" He narrows his eyes in suspicion. "You know your precious Mage wouldn't really arrest you for cursing me with illegal magic, right? You're much more likely to get a badge of honor than handcuffs." 

"What—no! It's not about that!" (Honestly, I'd forgotten the spell was illegal.) 

"Then what's the problem?" 

"I—" I don't know. "I'm sure she—whoever she is—wouldn't want you to die over this! Not when she could just return your feelings, and then—"

"Crowley, Snow! Don't you get it? He's not going to return my feelings, alright?" 

"Of course—" I stop talking when my brain's caught up with my mouth—once I've taken the time to process his words. "He?"

He breathes a heavy sigh, looking up at the ceiling so he doesn't have to look at me. He looks so young right now—less someone who could have ever been my enemy and more like the dying, lovestruck teenage boy he is.

Baz looks haunting. Even paler than usual with blood-stained lips. But, somehow, the contrast doesn't make him look sickly. Instead, he looks like a painting of an eighteenth century English monarch. Regal. Aristocratic. Above it all.

Just as beautiful as ever. 

"Look. I've made my choice. I'd rather die than lose my magic. And I'd rather die than burden him with my affections. So just…" He takes his eyes off the ceiling to pierce me with a sharp look. "Live with my decision, Snow.  _ You _ get to." 

His words gut me like a stab wound—it steals my breath from my lungs. 

I have to live with this horrible mistake. In a few days' time, Baz will be dead and gone, and it will be all my fault. 

It wasn't supposed to be this way—an accidental spell shouldn't be the end of the Baz Pitch. Baz, who’s strong and fierce and fucking ruthless. He always seemed indestructible to me—as constant and unmoveable as the Himalayas. I reckon it only makes sense that I'd be the avalanche to bring him down. Me, with my volatile magic—the unexpected natural disaster. 

I never would have done this if I had the time to think it through. If I had to make the choice—if I got the battlefield I was always promised, with Baz on one side and me on the other, I wouldn't have been able to stomach it. I've killed dark creatures before. Goblins and gargoyles and giants. But I'd have sooner fallen on my own sword than spilled Baz's blood.

Because he's not a dark creature. Not really. He's an arsehole, and a bully, and a snob. But he's also just a boy—just Baz. My Baz. 

My brain starts to catch up with what my gut already knows. I finally untangle the mess of feelings that Baz ties me up in every time he looks at me. I separate the anger and frustration and jealousy from the false narratives I've written for us, and I start to see my emotions for what they are. What they really mean. 

The senseless despair that's seized my heart since the moment I cursed Baz starts to make some sense. 

Because, beneath every bitter emotion I harbor for Baz, there's a common thread. My true feelings, mixed up in all the ones I believe so I can ignore the reality of us. 

Passion. Hunger. Longing. 

Love. 

The yearning hits me full-force—the full devotion of my romantic feelings clashes with the panic at what I've done. 

I’m in love with Baz. 

And I've killed him. 

“Snow?” Baz asks, with his eyebrows furrowed and his expression faintly curious. I haven’t moved a muscle during my revelation—I’ve just been staring at him without really looking. Seeing him—really seeing him, seeing him as the boy I love—rips my heart in two.

Because he can’t be mine. Because he’s dying. Because someone else has already claimed his heart and I’ve already doomed him.

Misery washes over me, knowing that I’m so unwanted. Agatha doesn’t want me. Baz certainly doesn’t want me—he could  _ never _ want me. 

_Fuck me,_ I think, feeling wretched from the inside out. **Everything’s Coming Up Roses** _is right._

The air suddenly becomes thick and sticky, coated with my green magic. My heart bursts in my chest and the taste of rejection burns my tongue. 

  
I open my mouth, and rose petals blossom from my throat and spill at Baz’s feet like an admission. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in a few days with the final chapter. Feel free to scream at me until then in my comments (or on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com))


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz tries to find a way to fix Simon’s (newest) magical mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that plot twist/ cliffhanger last chapter, but I loved reading all of your reactions, so am I really that sorry? 
> 
> Fun prelude: I reread a scene from Pride and Prejudice to write the climax of this fic. Take from that what you will.

**Baz**

I jump back as Snow hurls flowers at me. Horror seizes my breath from my lungs, and I'm just barely able to choke out, "Crowley, Snow!" 

More roses fall to the ground in a puddle of red, his damnation colouring our floor. Snow's looking down at them in shock and alarm, having caught on to what he's done.

" _How_ did you do wordless magic?" I scream at him, my concern coming out as anger. (Though, I'm angry too.) "More importantly, _why_ the _fuck_ would you curse yourself?"

"I— I didn't—" He avoids my eyes, covering his mouth to stop the roses. It's no use; they continue to force themselves out of his body. He chokes out his words around petals. "I was just—I was only _thinking_ about the spell—I didn't mean to—"

_"Aleister Crowley._ Of course you didn't, you fucking disaster of a—" 

My prepared insults are snatched from my throat as he chokes on roses, gulping like he can't breath over the curse. His face is going red with exertion, his blood boiling just under his skin. (I can smell it—the tempting buttery scent of him.) 

Panic stops my heart, and I grab him by the forearms. He looks at me then, catching his breath in a rush of desperate gasping. I bark at him: "Use your magic to make it stop. C'mon, quickly—use your words." 

He just manages to blurt out, **"S-stop!"**

Snow's body finally stops heaving. Slowly, the blood leaves his face, save for his perpetually rosy cheeks. 

"Now, answer me." My voice is cold; my rage—coming to me now that I know he can breathe—flattens my tone. "Why would you curse yourself with a fatal love spell? Didn't want to be left out of all the fun of dying?" 

"Fuck off, Baz." 

"No, really. I'm seriously trying to riddle out why the _fuck_ you would do something so reckless. Do you have a death wish?"

"I _just_ told you it was an accident!" 

"One hell of an accident!" I scream. I see a bit of my spit land on his cheek, and I have the disgusting urge to lick it off. "Is this part of some deranged plan to get Wellbelove back?"

"Wellbe—Agatha?" he splutters. "Are you mad?" 

_"I_ should be asking _you_ that!" 

Snow throws my own words back at me. "Why does this matter to you so much?"

I think of Simon's golden skin in the moonlight of our bedroom, the constellation of moles I trace in my mind when I can't sleep. I think of his body movements when he wields his sword, the power and prowess in his every masterful maneuver. I think of his laugh—open and happy and contagious—when he manages to get a spell right in class. I think of how his eyes are the exact colour of blue as the hydrangeas in my mother's garden; about how when I realised that, I stupidly thought that the seeds of my affections must have been long planted.

I think of every part of Simon Snow, and how every part of him matters to me. Every part of him sets me on fire. I love every inch of his skin, every word out of his mouth; even when I hate him, it's nothing to how much I love him. 

I'd do anything for him. 

A plot forms in my head quickly. I grab my coat off the hanger in my dresser, shoving my arms into the sleeves as Simon gapes at me. 

"Hey! I was talking to you!" he yells as I cross the threshold from our bedroom into the stairwell. "Where—what are you doing?"

I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. I brace myself for what I'm about to do, preparing myself for how much it's going to hurt. 

"I'm fixing this," I promise, and I slam the door to our bedroom. 

* * *

**Agatha**

I'm running out by the Wavering Woods when Basilton pops up next to me out of nowhere. 

"Nicks and Slick!" I shriek, tearing the headphones to my Walkman cassette player out of my ears. (The Mage allows some technology onto campus, but only electronics from his era.) (Minty says the thing's cool because it's vintage, but I think it's ridiculous.) 

"Wellbelove, hello," he greets me breathlessly. Basil looks a bit mad—his skin is pallid and his usually styled hair is sticking up in every direction. 

I glance around, and see we're alone in this secluded part of the woods. I can't believe I didn't see him coming. 

"How did you get over here so fast?" I question, aware that I sound a bit too much like Bella Swan. But Simon's suspicions about Basil seem a little less crazy at this moment. 

He dodges the question. "I need a favour." 

Déjà vu. 

"And?" I square my shoulders, trying to seem cool and confident after our mortifying conversation earlier. I've made my peace with not wanting him—with not wanting anyone—but that doesn't mean I fancy embarrassing myself in front of someone as poised as Basil. (Even though _poised_ isn't the word I'd use to describe him at the moment. _Feral_ might be more accurate.) 

He scowls. "You need to go tell Snow that you're in love with him right now." 

Okay, _really now,_ déjà vu. 

"Are you serious right now?" 

Basil apparently doesn't sense my rage, because he just nods at me earnestly. "Very serious. Go tell Snow you forgive him for scuffing your new heels or forgetting your anniversary or whatever daft thing he did to make you dump him, and then you two can go back to being nauseating and in love." 

I clench my fists. Simon's right; Baz is well punchable. 

"First of all," I say, through gritted teeth. "I didn't dump Simon because of some silly whim. I wasn't happy with him, and I had every right to make the decision to end our relationship since, I, _unlike you,_ was one of the people in it. Secondly, who the fuck do you think you are?" 

Basil takes a small step backwards, finally looking alarmed by my anger. "Wellbelove, I—"

I don't let him continue. "That was a rhetorical question. _You_ are the person who saw it fitting to try and mess up my relationship with Simon every chance you got. You are the person who would flirt and charm and wink, but only when Simon was looking, because that was the real point, wasn't it? To get Simon to look." 

I see a hint of a blush tint Basil's cheeks, almost too faint to recognize. His darting eyes are an unmistakable sign of guilt. 

I cross my arms. "That's what I thought. Now, fuck off and go flirt with Simon—or fight with him, honestly, I couldn't care less. Just leave _me_ out of it." 

Basil lets out a shaky breath, running his hand through his messy hair. "It's not that simple," he forces the words out like they pain him. "Simon accidentally cursed _himself_ with what he cursed me with, and now he needs his love to be requited or he's going to _die_." 

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not his girl." 

His eyes darken. "You can't even _pretend?"_

"No. I really, really can't." Not anymore. Not ever again. 

"But he—" Basil cuts himself off, taking a moment to swallow his emotion. His expression grows fierce, and his next words come out forcefully, like he's trying to push magic into them. "Simon Snow can't die. He just _can't."_

"Then I guess you'd better go find a way to save him then, huh?" 

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" He growls. "There _is_ no other way, other than him losing his magic, and you know he won't willingly choose that. He loves magic better than anyone." He looks up at the sky, and sighs. "You're the only solution— _you're_ the one that he wants." 

I'm tempted to let them die from their own stupidity. I really am. 

But I love Simon, even if I'm not _in_ love with him, so I say, "I don't think that's true." 

Basil scoffs bitterly, averting his eyes. 

"You know," I continue, "I think Simon's always trying to get you to look, too." 

The fact annoys me, just a little. Sure, I'm not attracted to Simon. But, regardless of that, it's not pleasant to suspect your ex-boyfriend might have been secretly in love with the bloke he was frequently reminding you was, and I quote, 'Satan if Satan was addicted to hair products.'

Basil's gaze snaps up to me, and I see a flash of reluctant hope shining in them, like he's scared to even let himself consider the possibility. 

He still looks like he needs a bit more convincing. But I don't really feel like helping my ex-boyfriend get a boyfriend (any more than I already have). This entire conversation is _definitely_ above my pay grade. 

"Okay, now," I say. "I still have three miles to go, and I reckon you need to go find Simon." 

Basil nods, schooling his expression back into his usual cool demeanour. (Though, now that I've seen a bit of the _real_ Baz, I recognize it as a facade.) "I suppose I should." 

I adjust my Walkman on my hip, skipping back a couple songs so I can get back to where I was in No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom before this unpleasant little interruption. 

"Oh, and Basil?" I add.

"Yes?' 

"If you hurt Simon, I will dissolve your body in a vat of acid, and no one will ever know." 

Baz blinks. I readjust my ponytail. 

“You know,” Baz finally says, a grudging respect in his voice. “For a girl with a reputation as a happily ever after, you’re quite the fright.” 

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, popping in my headphones. “Nice is my default, but I save terrifying for special occasions.” 

* * *

**Simon**

The Catacombs are dead creepy, and I'm not sure why I've chosen it as my place to pout about Baz. 

Well, I suppose that's not quite true. I've chosen it because...well, this is where it all began, isn't it? 

The first time I felt something other than hatred for Baz was in this room. _Les Tombeau des Enfants._ After weeks of following him to no avail, he let me catch up with him. I expected him to be mocking; I expected him to act superior. _'I'm surprised you managed to make it into the Tomb; only proper mages are supposed to be allowed in. It must be losing its magic.'_ A classic Baz line like that. 

But that's not what happened. He distracted me, talked about the plague. He'd been drinking; I could smell sickeningly sweet Fireball on his breath. He told me how to kill vampires—how to kill _him._ (Though, now we can see that I clearly hadn't needed the advice.) 

He seemed vulnerable for the first time. He was still in control of that conversation—he _always_ is—but there was something somber and regretful about his story about the children dying. Something wistful and fatalistic about his suggestions for killing vampires. 

Walking back to our bedroom that night, my skin itched and my stomach fluttered. I remember punctuating each step with a mantra of _don't think, don't think._ I told myself I was just embarrassed, that the encounter was just uncomfortable. But it wasn't that. 

It was that, when his black hair fell into his eyes, I wanted to tuck the strands back behind his ears. It was that I liked his singing voice—though I wished he would sing me something less morbid than _Ring around the Rosie._ It was that I wanted to ask him: _why did you decide to finally let me find you, and why do you seem so lost?_

It was that my heart was screaming out for his. I just wasn't listening properly then. 

It's fitting that my feelings for Baz started in a graveyard, and will end with me in a grave. 

I wipe tears off my face with my shirt sleeve. I clear my throat, hoping it will make it hurt a little less, but it's still itchy and raw. I'm not sure how long my spontaneous **Stop** spell is going to work, but given that this curse is spurred on by the intensity of your feelings and thinking about the person you love, I wouldn't give myself much more time before I'm vomiting up blood and roses. 

I thought my end might be at Baz's hand. I'd just figured I'd have time to defeat the Humdrum first though, before he gutted me. 

That's what I am now. Gutted. 

I close my eyes, and try to see anything but Baz. But ignoring Baz's gravity is like trying not to breathe. You can try and hold your breath, but you'll break eventually—gulping down oxygen in great heaving gasps.

That's what I'm thinking about—the inevitability of Baz Pitch—when I hear clicking footsteps on the stone floor coming from the hallway. 

I don't open my eyes. I don't need to; I know who's coming. 

"Snow," he greets me. I feel like I manifested him. Like I accidentally poured magic into my yearning. "Interesting place to sulk." 

"You're really not one to talk," I scoff. He's the poster child for dark and brooding. "Are you following me?" 

"That's supposed to be _my_ line," he responds, haughty amusement in his tone. 

"Fuck off, Baz." There's no bite to my voice; I sound as weary as I feel. 

Baz doesn't fuck off. He slides down next to me against the wall. 

He lets the silence stretch out like an ocean between us. 

There's always so much unsaid. We don't actually talk much; we just fight. I accuse him of being a vampire and he ridicules me for being the worst Chosen One that was ever chosen and we go around and around like that, yelling everything and saying nothing. 

"Do you know what I thought when I first met you?" he finally asks. I turn my head to see him tucking his knees into his chest. It's a boyish position, and fondness itches at my throat at the intimacy of it. 

Something like hope beats in my chest. This moment feels fragile, like it might dissolve like candy floss on my tongue, and I'm desperate to savor it.

"What?" I whisper. I'm afraid being too loud will shatter the moment. 

"I saw you with your unruly curls and crooked smile and thought to myself: _this nightmare is going to ruin my life._ "

Well, okay. 

"I tried to resist the Crucible—I really did. But the damned thing was like a fishing hook to the gut, yanking me to you completely against my will." He pauses meaningfully. "And my better sense."

I scowl. He's _such_ a prick. "That's how the Crucible _works."_

He shakes his head. "I think it was worse because it was you," he counters, expression and tone earnest. 

I grit my teeth so hard I worry I might fracture a tooth. 

"You were always so _golden,"_ he continues, bringing back that derisive use of the word. "Such a little storybook hero, even when you were slaying _dragons_ —they're really not dark creatures, you know. Just a bit prickly." 

"You know I _had_ to kill that dragon," I try to defend. "It was attacking Watf—" 

"And then came fifth year," Baz interrupts, and lets out a long-suffering sigh. "You stuck to me like pixie dust. I couldn't think, I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. Crowley, Snow. You made it hard to _breathe._ " 

I feel my face flush red and I turn away from him; staring at a wall of skulls seems a better alternative than watching his solemn expression as he recounts how miserable I've made his life. I really don't need Baz to remind me that he thinks I'm insufferable. I already _know_ he thinks that. 

"That's the year I knew you were going to be the one who won in the end—that there would be no besting you. That's why I laughed when Bunce showed me what that spell meant; it was so ironic. So _fitting_ for me to go like that. A bit more drawn-out of an exit than I would have preferred, but ultimately, not the worst possible death. Not compared to your sword; at least this felt poetic." I feel his gaze on me, burning holes into the side of my face. "That is, until you decided to sacrifice yourself too. I mean, what were you _thinking?_ Well, I suppose you weren't. _"_

I clench my fists, fury rising in my chest. This is the one thing I can't stomach him mocking me for: my irrational and completely irreversible love for him. 

"Go fuck yourself," I turn and spit.

"Pardon me?" Baz says, looking more surprised than he has any right to be, considering he's just spent the entirety of this conversation insulting me. 

"You heard me," I respond. Rejection itches at my throat, and I have to hold back an itchy cough. "Merlin, Baz. We've got _days_ to live, and you really want to waste the limited time we have left taunting me about what a shitty mage I am?" 

"I...Snow, I was simply—" He sounds uncharacteristically sheepish, but I'm too livid to let him get a word in. 

"You're _simply_ a pompous arsehole who always needs to rub salt in the wound! Merlin, Baz, is what you're in love with _the experience of making me feel terrible?"_

He works his jaw. "Of course not." 

"You could've fooled me." I laugh humorlessly. If I can hear the pain in my false bravado, I'm sure he can, with his expert hearing. I can't stand another second of him not being mine—not with him sitting so closely that I could touch him if I moved just a centimetre to the left. I can feel the flowers gathering in my chest, ready to spill at his feet. 

I rush to speak, to get the last word in before the roses cut me off: "So, if you could kindly fuck off and die, that would be—"

I don't get to finish my sentence, because that's when he lunges at me. I fear he's gone fully feral, judging by his expression, and that he's going to bite me. Drain me right here in the Catacombs, and make my death a swift one. 

He doesn't. Instead, he kisses me. 

**Baz**

I have nothing to lose at this point. 

(Other than my dignity, of course.) (But I'd give up even that for just one kiss.) (I'd cross _every_ line for him.) 

It's a clumsy kiss. I blame that on the fact that it's my first one, and that, after years of dreaming of this, I'm beyond greedy for him. I just grab his cheekbones and shove my face against his and hope that instinct takes over. (I'm not quite sure it does—the kiss is just a messy pressing of lips and noses for a moment.)

That is, until Simon takes over. 

He comes alive under my fingertips. He clutches at my hair, pulling me closer to him like he's trying to eliminate all the distance we've put between us in the past seven years. He kisses with a fervor you'd expect from a boy with all that raw power—it's a combustion of passion, fiery and wild and oh so Simon Snow. 

When he crawls into my lap, my heart bursts out of my chest like a shooting star. His eyes are a question mark as he brushes the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip—slowly, carefully. Like he's not quite sure it's really me beneath him, here at his mercy. 

That's what I am—completely, totally at his mercy. My entire body is praying to his altar; my soul is singing his anthem. I've always been just a second away from melting at his feet.

I can't wait any longer for another kiss. I pounce again, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him to me. I've been a starving man for far, far too long, and my base instincts are finally taking over. I feel like I'll never quite get my fill of Simon. 

He kisses me back with that same hunger, as if he's a predator too. I don't mind being his prey—not one bit. 

Especially because it's not just desire I taste on his tongue. There's definitely that, but there's also something reverent about his touches. Something holy. 

Something like love. 

The force of the hopeful realisation takes my breath away. I'm desperate not to break this delicate thing we've built, eager to keep kissing until we've solved every broken thing between us—but it doesn't seem Snow's thinking along the same lines, because suddenly he's laughing against my mouth. 

"What's so funny?" I mutter, put out that he's stopped kissing me. 

"Wait, wait, wait—was all that rubbish about the crucible and fifth year and me being 'golden' supposed to be your version of a _romantic confession?"_

"I thought that was fairly obvious," I bristle. 

"Oh no, Baz," he snorts, delight dancing in his eyes. "That was _awful._ " 

"Oh, piss off," I counter, but I can't manage to put any bite in my tone. 

Simon smiles, and roses bloom from my chest. Not cursed ones—just metaphorical ones. Beautiful and vibrant tokens of my all-consuming love from him. 

"I love you too," Simon says, and he looks like the first morning of spring: full of life and hope and possibility. 

* * *

**Simon**

Baz is a vision of domestic bliss in the morning. 

All of his hard lines are softened in the glow of the rising sun through the window. His expression is more peaceful in his sleep than I've ever seen it while he's been awake—even more serene than it was last night, when I kissed him into a sort of docile stupor. 

His beauty is almost a shock—like I haven't seen it nearly every day for years. I suppose it's because I'm finally allowed to notice. I'm inspired to do something that will ensure that I can keep this beautiful expression on his face for as long as possible. 

I gently untangle myself from his arms. He makes a sleepy sound of protest at the back of his throat at the loss of my warmth, but he doesn't stir. I'm not surprised—Baz isn't one to get up early if he doesn't have to. 

The air is brisk as I jog my way towards the Wavering Woods, towards a garden out a ways behind the football pitch. I make quick work of it, though I'm careful not to nick myself. I'm sure Baz wouldn't appreciate the blood. 

I run into the dining hall, hoping not to catch anyone's attention. It's Sunday, so the hall's nearly empty, save for some of the girls on the lacrosse team, loading up on carbs before their early morning practice. 

I make my way to the tea station and grab a to-go cup of Earl Grey tea with loads of milk and sugar, just the way I've seen Baz take it. As I'm turning back towards the exit, I make eye contact with Agatha. She rolls her eyes at me with a perceptive expression that tells me she knows exactly what I'm doing. I send her a sheepish smile in return, and I'm pleased to see the corners of her lips quirk upwards, just a little. 

I hurry back to Mummers as quickly as I can without spilling Baz's tea. When I walk into our bedroom, I see Baz has huddled himself in his comforter with his face just barely peeking out. I can't help the smile that lights up my face at the sight—he looks bloody precious. 

I set down my presents for him, and lean in to kiss him. 

"Hmmph," he complains against my mouth, but he kisses me back anyways. 

"Good morning, darling." I feel a bit silly about the pet name, but I can't quite help it—I'm overcome with affection. (Plus, it brings a lovely blush to Baz's cheeks, which is well worth the vulnerability.) 

"Why are you already dressed, Snow?" Baz asks when he pulls back to get a proper look at me. He smirks, and sarcastically adds, "Don't tell me you were called away for your Chosen One duties of saving damsels in distress and singing with the woodland creatures." 

"I wanted to get you something," I respond, shyness softening my tone. I motion to his nightstand in explanation. 

Baz tries—and fails—to keep his expression indifferent. 

"Don't you think I've had enough of roses, Snow?" Baz tries to brush off the bouquet I'd picked him, but it's obvious by the slight quaver in his voice that he's fucking well chuffed. 

"You did so well at romance last night that I decided I'd give it a go," I joke. 

"Ha, ha, very funny," he replies sarcastically.

"Also, I wanted to ask you something." I hand him the tea, hoping it'll warm him to me. He takes a sip, softly humming a little in relief. "So, I know I'm kind of a mess." 

Baz raises a single eyebrow at me, and deadpans, "I hadn't noticed." 

"Shut up," I reply. "I know I'm a disaster, and I've mucked things up a lot between us. And I know I'm a truly terrible boyfriend."

Baz raises both his eyebrows at that. 

"But, with you, I want to try. To be good, I mean. To be a good boyfriend. Your boyfriend, if you'd let me." The words fall out in an awkward jumble, and I feel my face heating up to the colour of the roses. Speaking of… "Oh, here," I say, shoving the roses at Baz. "For you." 

Baz takes the makeshift bouquet, staring at the flowers for what feels like a long moment. 

When he looks up, I feel like he can see right through me—like he can see to my very core. 

It's not indifference on his face, like I'd seen so many times before. Not anything like it. It's love, plain and simple. So obvious I can hardly believe I never saw it before. 

"I'd like that," Baz says with a shy smile. "Though, for the record, I prefer hydrangeas." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought if you have a moment. 
> 
> Also, several people have brought to my attention that I am the only one using the the Gay Panic! At the Catacombs tag, and I want you all to know that tag is a free for all, & I wish all of you lovely fanfic writers will also write gay panic scenes in the Catacombs. The Catacombs is the ideal location for gay panic!!! It’s so dramatic!!! The mood lighting and spooky vibes!!! Impeccable! 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com) if you want


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